


deliver hope

by epsiloneridani



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Found Family, Gen, Spartans, implied PTSD, part of a longer work I'll never post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 12:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16086296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: Carter. Kat. Jun. Emile. Jorge.Thom.Nothing’s forever. Not even family.





	deliver hope

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: implied PTSD, canon-typical language and violence

“How do you think we’re going to die?”

Jun asks it late one night, when they’re on lookout and the rest of Noble’s asleep in the cave below. He’s perched on the cliff-face, turned away with his sniper rifle propped on his knee and his helmet set beside him. The city burns in the distance, a searing sunset in the starless sky.

“ _What?_ ”

Jun snaps his head toward the inferno on the horizon. “How do you think we’re going to die?” he repeats quietly. Thom fights the sick churning in his chest and clutches his dog tags, running a thumb over the callsign:  _Noble Six_. He’s walking in a ghost’s shadow, they all are, and Jun asks how  _they’re_  going to die?

_In a damn firefight like the others._

“That’s a pretty morbid question coming from you,” Thom says instead, even over the ache in his lungs. “Why do you ask?”

Jun shrugs, a roll of the shoulders that tips him precariously toward oblivion. Thom wrinkles his nose and pushes his back against the cliff. Snipers are crazy bastards. “Seriously,” he presses, “I thought you were supposed to be the optimistic one.”

Jun snorts softly. “ _No_. I’m pretty sure that’s going to be Jorge.”

“…right.”

“We haven’t been a team that long. You’ll pick up on it eventually.”

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

Thom only thinks of it later, when Carter’s convulsing and coughing up blood, heaving and writhing while Jorge holds him down and Emile drives biofoam into the blast wound. Thom only thinks of it later, when they’re all huddled in a medbay and Kat hasn’t let go of Carter’s hand since they were allowed the room. He only thinks of it later, when their first mission as a  _team_  is a line in a file in a record somewhere and Carter barely made it back alive.

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

He only thinks of it later, when he’s hunched over a coffee in the mess hall and Jun’s staring past him, lost in the abyss. They’re the only two awake at this hour, or at least the only two willing to tolerate another’s company. Thom doesn’t ask about the man he replaced. Nobles die violently – and often. Kat and Carter are all that remains of the original fireteam, dauntless and indestructible and too human to hold on forever. He watches them, so synchronous they don’t need to speak, and wonders what either of them would do if they lost the other.

“What?”

He didn’t say it. Or maybe he did. Thom blinks. “I…you heard me.”

Jun snorts, sets his mug down and passes it back and forth between his hands, fidgeting, fidgeting, uncharacteristically restless for someone that spends hours silent and still. “Carry on, I suppose,” he says at last, shrugging. “What else?”

It’s quiet, so quiet, but for the tension in Three’s shoulders you’d think they were still in the middle of a warzone. Thom rolls his eyes, lifting his mug agreeably and Jun flinches – a flash in the darkness he almost misses.

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

He only thinks of it later, when they’re onboard a Pelican heading for their next mission and Jun’s armor sits empty and silent and no matter how much Emile bitches and moans and prods and pries, Carter’s unyielding and unanswering. Jace-B434 fills in well, clipped and professional, but the air aches with the absence. For all of their complaining, the chatter is a comfort.

Jun comes back after a week away from the field, pale and tight-lipped and high-strung until Jorge drags him into a bear hug and Emile snipes –  _What, Carter finally letcha out of the brig for breaking noise protocols?_  He only thinks of it later, when he’s wandering the halls of the  _Dawn_  and nearly runs over Jun slipping out of the medbay. He gets the barest glimpse of the interior, of Doc Reynolds, resident shrink, and Jun scowls darkly, snarls  _Keep it to your damn self,_  and shoves by.

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

Not like this.

He only thinks of it later, when Emile’s on lifesupport, when the medics are caucused in a corner,  _He’s not going to pull through._  Carter sits beside him long into the night, clasping his hand, brushing his thumb over the bruised knuckles,  _Stay with us, stay with us, you’re strong, Emile_. They push him away when Four flatlines and even then he hovers, clutching the doorframe until his own knuckles turn white, clutching Kat’s grip when she pulls him away from the blood and the broken beat of Emile’s heaving heart.  _Let them work. Let them work, Carter. Emile’s stubborn. He’ll be all right._

He only thinks of it later, when Emile’s breathing steadily, regulated by a respirator. The medic makes the mistake of stepping in front of Carter, makes the mistake of barring his path.

“Commander, you may want to prepare yourself for the possibility he won’t wake u—”

“Get out of my way.”

The medic shrinks to the side. Carter retakes his seat, retakes Emile’s hand. They all stay beside him, rotating shifts so at least some of them are rested. Thom wraps a blanket and an arm around Carter’s shoulders when it’s his turn to keep watch. He doesn’t need to hang on for so long. He doesn’t want to let go.

“He’ll pull through,” Carter says hoarsely, rote by now, so raw right now. He leans into the hold and Thom pulls him as close as he can. “Thom—”

“‘Course he will,” Thom agrees easily. Carter clears his throat and shrugs away so Thom drops into the chair beside him and props his back against his shoulder and his feet on the empty table. Carter swallows thickly, blinking, blinking – breathing. Thom clasps his free hand and holds – and anchors.  _We’re with you. You’re not alone._  “‘Course he will, Carter.”

 “Hey, boss,” Emile croaks eighty hours later, a thousand eternities, and Carter squeezes his hand between both of his own and doesn’t let go. His smile is so tired, so worn, but it shines like the sun after a storm.

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

Not like this.

He only thinks of it later, when Kat’s shaking in his arms and he’s stumbling across ragged terrain still screaming from a Phantom’s plasma assault.

“You h-have to…leave me,” she chokes, a garbled groan through her shattered comm. “ _Thom_ —”

“No chance in hell, Kay.”

She chuffs a strangled laugh. “I h-hate that…damned  _name_ ,” she forces, swallowing thickly. “Thom–”

“Kat, come  _on_. What kinda guy would I be if I just left you here?”

“A  _smart one_.” Kat pauses, sucking a labored inhale. “We  _both_ —”

“—are getting off this rock  _alive_.”

The drop zone is two miles east, through the seething plains and over the scorched sand dunes. Kat falls quiet, limp, lifeless, and he jostles her gently, enough for her to groan, enough to keep her awake, enough to know she’s still alive.

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

Not like this.

“You’re such a damn cowboy,” she complains later, when she wakes up in the medbay, held together by stitches and hooked up to a healing unit. “Jorge said you stole a  _Wraith_.”

“ _Jorge_  left out the best part.” Thom slides into the other seat beside her bed, taking her free hand with a dramatic flourish that makes her laugh. Carter rolls his eyes, nudges him with a shoulder,  _I’m glad you’re okay_. “Which is when I used the Wraith to trash their base and steal a shuttle.”

“Cowboy,” she repeats, deadpan, and he shrugs, leaning back in his chair and kicking his feet up on Carter’s legs.

“One of us has to have some style.”

“That wasn’t  _style_. That was suicide.”

“Hey, I’m still  _here_ , sis,” he says without thinking, and she tries not to smile, shoves him and rolls her eyes.

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

Not like this.

He only thinks of it later, when Carter barks  _bomb_  and he hears it, he has to move, but he can’t turn fast enough, it’s ticking, ticking, ticking down the rest of his life, the exit’s blocked, barricaded by rubble, and his chest is churning acid. Trapped. Not enough time. Nowhere to go. Not like this. Not like this. Not for nothing.

“Thom!”

He hears Jorge, can’t see him, and then the wall crashes down like the bomb’s already detonated and he’s on the floor, crushed beneath. The room shudders, shudders, shatters; the building’s collapsing, an earthquake, an avalanche, and he should feel fire, should feel pain, should be seared from this mortal plain, but there’s nothing, nothing, nothing except Jun’s scream.  _Jorge!_

They tell him if it had been anyone else the blast would have killed them, tell him Jorge’ll be all right, tell him it’s not his fault. “It was his choice to save you. Respect that,” Carter says, squeezing his shoulder, always their pillar, always his strength, and Thom nods numbly and hangs on.

“I’m fine, Thom,” Jorge says, hours later when the medbay’s quiet and dark because the rest of Noble’s been kicked out for taking up too much space. His eyes are boring, serious, and Thom bites his lip and nods. Jorge’s hand closes around his wrist, grounding, forgiving.  _It’s all right_.  “I promise.”

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

Not like this.

He only thinks of it later, when they’re all together again and he didn’t realize how much he loved them until he almost lost them.

Fumirole’s burning around them and they’re outnumbered and the only way they make it out of this alive, they only way they win, is if they take out the super-carrier set up three kliks east. He straps the jetpack on his back and shoots to the sky, Jun and Jorge’s cover, Emile’s backup, Carter’s support. Kat’s their carrier,  _protect at all costs_. They drive into the heart of the swarm and she sets her jaw and the charge and leaps into the fray. He wills her toward the grav-lift, wills her to their salvation. She has to make it, she has to toss it, then she has to run for her life, leap from above, and he’ll be damned if he’s not there to catch her for all of their sakes.

“Path’s clear—”

“Squad incoming. I’ve got them—”

“Cut through, cut through, cut through—”

She’s so close. She’s so far. He sees the Banshee screaming, roaring, but it’s moving too fast, shrieking toward her. The blast hits, Carter cries  _Kat!_ , and for a terrifying second Thom’s high enough above that he can’t see her through the smoke, she’s not moving on his radar anymore, Carter’s snapping  _Kat, respond. Noble Two,_ respond, and  _hell_ , she’s down and there has to be less than two minutes left on the timer.

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

Not like this.

She can barely turn her head, tilted just enough to catch his eye through the visor before it lolls back to the side, the last of her strength expended. She can’t speak, her helmet’s shattered, and she has to know it’s the only way but even with the spent set of her spine her protest screams.

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

“Thom?”

“Thom, damn you, what the  _hell_  are you—”

“There’s not enough  _time_. You’ll never make it  _out_.” A sniper rifle snaps in the background. “ _Damn it, Thom_ , are you  _listening?_ ”

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

“Six.” Thom skids to a stop in the center of the ship, seconds, seconds, seconds to speak. Carter’s voice is hoarse, raw. “Thom, run like  _hell_.”

_How do you think we’re going to die?_

He only thinks of it later – and he knows.

_For them._

_—-_


End file.
